Federico García Lorcatrans. Colin Teevan
Esta luz, este fuego que devora.
Este paisaje gris que me rodea.
Este dolor por una sola idea.
Esta angustia de cielo, mundo y hora.

Este llanto de sangre que decora
lira sin pulso ya, lúbrica tea.
Este peso del mar que me golpea.
Este alacrán que por mi pecho mora.

Son guirnalda de amor, cama de herido,
donde sin sueño, sueño tu presencia
entre las ruinas de mi pecho hundido.

Y aunque busco la cumbre de prudencia,
me da tu corazón valle tendido
con cicuta y pasión de amarga ciencia.
This light, this unquenchable fire that consumes me,
This scalded black and smoking wasteland all round me,
This one burning obsession that confounds me,
These limits of earth, sky and time which entomb me,

These tears of molten blood which gild and untune me
And my lubricious lyre, a useless tool compounding me
To this barren shore where wave upon wave pounds me,
This scorpion nurtured in my chest which dooms me,

These are thorns in the crown of the love which in bed
I wear through sleepless nights as I dream that you rest,
Amidst the ruins of my heart, your lovely head,

And though wisdom dictates that aloofness is best,
The thought of you drags me down to the dark sea bed
With the bittersweet hemlock of love in my breast.

Click here 11 for another translation of this poem.

Copyright © Herederos de Federico García Lorca.
Trans. copyright © Colin Teevan and Herederos de Federico García Lorca - publ. University of Durham.

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